


In every dream home a heartache

by dorcas_gustine



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: F/M, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-14
Updated: 2010-01-14
Packaged: 2017-10-06 06:47:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/50849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dorcas_gustine/pseuds/dorcas_gustine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>And every step I take takes me further from heaven. Is there a heaven, I'd like to think so.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	In every dream home a heartache

**Author's Note:**

> This is somewhat the opposite of my other fic, [**all you zombies**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/50573), as in it's a take on a more positive resolution after the end of LoM.  
> I tried writing something that was just a character study, but a bit of plot butted its way in. I tried to beat it off with a stick, but some managed to stay. Ah, well.  
> Also, as I was happily writing this I suddenly realized that I was writing a _songfic_! You can't even begin to imagine the _shame_.
> 
> Written for the [1973flashfic](http://community.livejournal.com/1973flashfic/) challenge, _music_. And for [plot20](http://community.livejournal.com/plot20/), _Ascension_.
> 
> The title and summary are taken from the first five lines of Roxy Music's _In every dream home a heartache_, 1973.
> 
> **Spoilers for 2x08!!!**

**what is and what should never be**

Sam has a morning ritual.

Well actually, it's not really a ritual. A ritual is made of simple, mechanical actions that are always constant, no matter the circumstances. A ritual is familiar, reassuring, comforting.

Sam's morning ritual is nothing like that.

From the moment he wakes up, but with his eyes still closed, he spends several long minutes lying in bed, tense and rigid.

His jaw is clenched as he picks the petals off of a metaphoric daisy.

1973\. 2007. Real. Unreal. Madness. Coma. _Death_.

None of the above.

Inevitably, it gets confusing after a while, and his face muscles start to hurt.  
Yesterday he woke up in 1973, but what about today?

Truth is, sometimes he doesn't know which one he'd choose. He knows which one he should, though.

He hears the noise of cars and people coming from the street. It reaches his ears muffled, as if from another reality. It doesn't tell him anything.

He's even bought a new bed, and he can't tell if his eyes are going to see '70s wallpaper, or 21st century, white ceiling.

1973\. 2007.

And he never dreamt before that quantum physics would become his life. His morning ritual.

Sam opens his eyes and it's still 1973.

He smiles, sighing in relief, and until now he didn't know this is what he wanted. He still doesn't know about reality, comas, madness, death.

He never dwells much on it.

He gets up, then, goes to take a shower.

Ten minutes later, he's cooking breakfast with the radio turned on.

"_So if you wake up with the sunrise, and all your dreams are still as new_," Robert Plant sings. "_And happiness is what you need so bad, girl_."

He still hasn't heard strange voices.

"_The answer lies with you_."

 

**living in the past**

To Sam 1973 is, firstly, about smells and sounds. _Music_.

Idly, he wonders if that's because smell and hearing are the two most reliable senses when it comes to the subconscious of a four year old boy.

Wherever he goes, all around him, radios are playing reminiscences from his childhood.

But that would be admitting he's- what, mad? _Dead_?

He immediately diverts his attention to something else. Annie.

She's wearing the new blouse, the one she let him buy as a present for her birthday last week. It sets off her eyes.

He's become really good at avoiding certain issues.

Annie raises her eyes and meets his, she smiles softly. He smiles back.

Ray has his transistor radio turned on, a match is about to start.

"_You know I'd love to love you_."

Annie is still smiling.

"_And above you there's no other_."

 

**anyway, anyhow, anywhere**

"Stop it," he says for the third time, letting his words slip into an annoyed tone.

Gene rolls his eyes and sighs as if he had the weight on the world on his shoulders, but he stops drumming his fingers on the wheel.

"_Nothing gets in my way_," sings Daltrey on the radio. "_Not even locked doors_."

It might just be a song about Gene. He says that out loud with a snort.

Gene makes no sign of having heard him, but a few moments later he begins to tap the rhythm again.

Sam glares at him, but Gene just shrugs and smirks at him. "You said so yourself," he says. "It's a song about me."

"_I can go anyway, way I choose, I can live anyhow, win or lose_," the song goes on. "_I can go anywhere, for something new. Anyway, anyhow, anywhere I choose_."

Or maybe it's about Sam.

"It's for losers," Gene says after a moment.

Sam shakes his head, frowning. "What?"

"It's for losers," Gene repeats, turning to look at him. "Nobody can do anything they want, you have to come to terms with other people, sooner or later."

"'No man is an island'," Sam agrees.

Gene snorts and rolls his eyes. "You just have to quote the big words, don't you?"

"_Ain't never gonna lose the way I choose_."

 

**midnight lullaby**

When they arrive the father is pacing back and forth, his hands making wild, incoherent gestures, his voice alternating between screams and whispers, his face tear-streaked.

The mother is sitting on the sofa, in the corner. Her hands are on her knees, she seems strangely relaxed, her eyes are fixed in front of her, looking at something on the wall. Something that isn't there.

There's a record on in the other room, the music comes as slightly muffled.

Sam recognizes Tom Waits, but he doesn't know the song.

"_Hush-a bye my baby, no need to be crying_."

He can see that Annie's slightly upset as she looks down at the tiny corpse in the cradle, but she manages to hold her cool. She's a professional, after all.

"I don't mean to be rude," she says, low enough so that the parents won't hear her. "Or cruel."

Sam nods, because he knows she'll never be rude. Or cruel.

She's a perfect woman. _The_ perfect woman.

"But as tragic as it is, sometimes babies die in their cradles," she whispers.

"Asphyxia," Sam nods.

"Then why are we here?"

"_Dream of West Virginia, or of the British Isles, 'cause when you are dreaming, you see for miles and miles_."

Gene frowns, looking at the father. "He called us."

As if on cue, the man points at his wife. "It was her!" he cries. "She killed him!"

Sam springs up to restrain the father back, but he doesn't seem to carry his accusation further.

The woman's jolted at the yell, but other than that she's in the same position.

"_When you are much older, remember when we sat at midnight on the windowsill, and had this little chat_,"

"And cut off that bloody record, will you Ray!" Gene bellows.

"_And dream, come on and dream, come on and dre_-"

 

**castles made of sand**

It's two days later, that Sam finds himself in an oddly reversed re-enactment.

This time it's the woman on the edge of the roof, and him with his hand extended trying to stop her.

"He was always crying," she whispers brokenly, but her eyes are dry. She's looking beyond the edge.  
Her eyes are fixed.

"Mrs. Ward," he calls her. "Sarah. Please, come here."

"I couldn't sleep at night," she goes on. "Almost a week. I just wanted to sleep."

"I understand. Sarah," he nods, taking another step forward. "But come here, we can talk about it in front of a cuppa, eh?"

Somebody has probably left his window open, a floor down. Hendrix is playing.

_'You won't hurt me no more.'_

"I just- I didn't cover his mouth for that long," she says, shaking. "A moment of blessed silence. Then it became too much."

_But then a sight she'd never seen made her jump and say._

"Mrs. Ward…"

_Look, a golden winged ship is passing my way._

"Too silent."

_And it really didn't have to stop...it just kept on going._

She jumps.

_And so castles made of sand slips into the sea._

When Annie reaches him, a minute later, his hand is still stretching forward, straining to catch something that isn't there anymore.

_Eventually._

 

**telegram sam**

"Oi Tyler," Gene grunts, bumping against him. "Shift it."

Sam sits up in his stool.

"That woman," Gene says. "Bad news, eh?"

"Yes," Sam nods.

Gene hums, then loudly calls for Nelson.

He asks for a double Scotch, then seems to think about it, and finally asks for a triple.

"You takin' anything?" he inquires, nodding at Sam's long emptied glass.

"No."

Nelson leaves, Gene nods to himself.

"Not feelin' like talking, are you?"

"No."

"Good, neither am I," Gene concludes with a firm nod.

"Good."

Gene drinks his triple Scotch, Sam looks at his glass.

"You're like a song I heard," Gene says after a moment. Apparently he's in a mood to talk, then. "You know that nancy bloke with the funny voice. Wears a lot of junk."

Sam frowns trying to make sense of the description. By Gene's standard, it can be anybody in the Glam music scene and their mothers. Fathers.

"Goes like this," he clears his voice, and attempts a rather personal interpretation of 'carrying a tune'. "Telegram Sam, telegram Sam."

Sam blinks at that. _Gene_ listens to T. Rex?

"That's you lately. Monosyllabic," Gene says. "Usually I have to knock you over the head to shut yer gob for a bloody second."

Sam snorts and shakes his head. "You wish."

"Wanna try me?" Gene raises his eyebrow at him and finishes his Scotch.

He never diverts his eyes from Sam's, how is he able to do that he doesn't now.

"You know," Sam says. "The song isn't really about that. And it's 'telegram Sam', not 'telegraphic Sam'."

"What do I care, he's a poofter with a funny voice and lots of junk," Gene shrugs. "Telegram Sam," he repeats.

Gene doesn't say the next words, but Sam knows he knows them.

They both know.

_Telegram Sam, telegram Sam._

_You're my main man._

 

**white rabbit**

"_One pill makes you larger, and one pill makes you small_," Sam's record-player is old even for the Seventies.

It doesn't matter, though, he remembers clearly the sound quality when he played them on his Hi-Fi at ho- in 2007. His memories make up for his current abysmal sound system.

It's funny how he has memories of the _future_, now.

He takes his clothes off slowly, but he was already mostly undressed, and he's standing in the middle of the room in his vest and boxer, and the song is still going on.

"_And if you go chasing rabbits, and you know you're going to fall_."

"Tell 'em a hookah smoking caterpillar has given you the call," Sam mouths the words.

"_Call Alice, when she was just small_."

He turns towards his telly, it's late and the programmes are all off-air now. There's just the Test-Card Girl looking at him from her convex world.

"Alice," he says, and snorts. "Are you Alice?"

She doesn't reply.

"_And you've just had some kind of mushroom, and your mind is moving low_."

Sam is observing her very closely, she's motionless.

"_Go ask Alice, I think she'll know_."

But she doesn't reply. She's not real.

"_When logic and proportion have fallen sloppy dead_,"

"I'm here," he tells her. "What should I do, now?"

"_And the White Knight is talking backwards_."

"I made a choice, and I'm here," he's almost yelling now, he notices. He stops.

"_And the Red Queen's 'off with her head!'_"

"I had to come back, and- and you all wanted me here, and-"

"_Remember what the dormouse said: 'Feed your head.'_"

And then he remembers.

She didn't.

"_'Feed your head. Feed your head. Feed your head.'_"

She wanted him to let go. She always wanted that.

 

**ballrooms of mars**

"Here," Annie says as soon as he opens the door.

He takes the record from her. It's not wrapped, except for a bright green bow.

"Thanks, Annie," he smiles. "But that wasn't necessary."

"Oh, shut up and take it, Tyler," she grins.

"Are you taking lessons from the Guv?" He asks with a smile. "Shall I put it on?"

"Sure," she says, looking around his flat, she doesn't come here often. Mostly because Sam doesn't want her to.

He doesn't think it's a suitable flat to be shown off to people. Especially people he wants to impress.

They sit on the bed, listening to the soft music.

"It wasn't your fault," Annie says, after a moment. "What happened."

Sam nods. "I know."

"She was just…_desperate_, Sam," she goes on. "Her child's death, it was an accident. She's mostly to blame, true, but it was just a terrible, tragic accident."

"Life is mostly made of those," Sam tells her. "I'm an expert."

"_Sam_."

He shakes his head and turns towards her. He takes her left hand in both of his. "I _know_ it wasn't my fault," Annie," he says. "That's not why I'm taking a break."

"Then why?" she asks. "Is it the stress?"

"It's just-" he sighs. "I made a decision, much like she did. I need some time to process it."

"What she did wasn't a decision."

"It was a choice," he says. "Her choice."

"It was the wrong choice, it wasn't even a choice!" she exclaims. "She killed herself, Sam! That's refusing to make a choice!"

"Depends on what your other options are."

"Sam-" she starts, then she stops and her head snaps up, her eyes terrified when she looks at him. "Sam- Sam, you're not thinking-"

"No," he says, shaking his head. "No, Annie, don't worry. That thing I did on the roof, that day… It won't happen again."

She seems relieved at that, but then she frowns again. "Why aren't you coming back, then?"

"I _am_ coming back, Annie," he reassures her. "I just need a bit more time."

She gives him a long look, then she nods.

"_And gripped in the arms of the changeless madman_,"

"Wanna dance?" he asks with a small smile.

Annie smiles back. She nods.

"_We'll dance our lives away in the ballrooms of Mars_."

 

**home is where i want to be**

"It's been a week, Sam," Annie tells him, as if he needs to be informed of that.

Sam grips the receiver more tightly and doesn't reply.

Annie sighs and falls silent.

"When are you coming back to work?" Annie asks after a long minute. "We all miss you."

Sam snorts. "I doubt Ray misses me."

He can almost picture her as she rolls her eyes. "You know what I mean."

"Yes."

There's another moment of silence. Shorter this time. "It's not the same without you," she says. "Come back, please."

Sam's been buying a lot of records lately, and these days the record-player is always on. "_Home is where I wanna be_."

The telly is on, the Test Card Girl is looking at him.

"_Home is where you'll always see_."

"Sam?"

"I will," he tells her. He tells both of them.

"_Friendly faces that'll never turn you down, or say goodbye_."

 

**life on mars?**

Sam comes back on a Tuesday.

He greets Phyllis as he enters the Station, and from her desk to the CID offices he smiles to everybody he knows.

"Morning, Chris."

"Morning, Boss."

"Ray."

"Tyler."

"DI Tyler," Annie says with a bright smile.

"WDC Cartwright."

"Oi!" Gene bellows from his office. "You two get a room!"

Sam's grin becomes wider. "And a good morning to you, too, Guv! Slept well?"

"Tch," Gene gives him a dark glare. "I bet _you did_, though."

"Yes," Sam nods. "As a matter of fact, I did."

Ray's radio is turned on, and he knows the tune very well.

"_But the film is a saddening bore, 'cause I wrote it ten times or more_."

"Now that Her Highness Princess Samantha is here," Gene addresses the room at large, "let's get on with the bloody job!"

"_It's about to be writ again, as I ask you to focus on_-"

Sam leans over and changes the station, from the other side of the room he sees Ray glaring his way, but he's too far away to protest.

"_Can you hear the music? Oh, yeah_," Jagger sings. Sam vaguely remembers this song. "_Can you hear the music ringin' in my ear?_"

Chris reaches his side and hands him some papers and a tape recorder. "This is the tape of Powell's questioning, Boss. And this is the file."

Sam takes everything off of Chris' hands. "This is more like it," he says.

Chris frowns slightly, but then he smiles when Sam thanks him.

"_Can you hear the music, can you hear the music?_"

**Author's Note:**

> Songs are, in order:  
> _What is and what should never be_, Led Zeppelin, 1969  
> _Living in the past_, Jethro Tull, 1972  
> _Anyway, anyhow, anywhere_, The Who, 1965  
> _Midnight lullaby_, Tom Waits, 1973  
> _Castles made of sand_, Jimi Hendrix, 1967  
> _Telegram Sam_, T. Rex, 1973  
> _White Rabbit_, The Jefferson Airplane, 1967  
> _Ballrooms of Mars_, T. Rex, 1972  
> _Home is where I want to be_, Mott The Hoople, 1971  
> _Life on Mars?_, David Bowie, 1971  
> _Can you hear the music?_, The Rolling Stones, 1973
> 
> Sam calls the Test Card Girl Alice mostly because of the song, but I must say that I certainly wasn't the first to come up with that name. I apologize for my absolute unoriginality.
> 
>  
> 
> A sort of DVD commentary can be found [here](http://dorcas-gustine.livejournal.com/64188.html).


End file.
